The Sweetest Thing
by Celtic Spacey
Summary: Just because you're the eldest, doesn't mean you're the only one who can look after a brother. Present for angel death dealer.


For my sister and best friend angel_death_dealer, who has had it extremely rough recently. Because it has to get better some time hun. And what belongs in here is your fault anyway. I've finally used your 'pie' prompt, and added something of your invention at the same time :P

Love you. Don't you ever forget that.

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The Sweetest Thing

Dean heard the door squeak open, and despite the pounding in his head he reached for his knife beneath his pillow. One eye opened sleepily, looking towards the door, finding the huge body frozen in the gap, silhouetted against the light streaming through the opened door, tense. As though it was unsure he had been woken by the noise.

Dean grunted, releasing his hold on the knife and rolling onto his side, snuffling deeply, the body at the door seemed to take this for some deeper meaning, or at least that there was no threat coming from his bed, because it moved away, light flooding in as it went outside of the room before the door creaked shut.

The snuffle became a hacking cough for a moment as phlegm backed up in his throat, dying away with a groan. He didn't care where Sam was going, so long as he came back with more tissues and some Tylenol he could do what he liked.

He snuffled again, and coughed thickly, trying to bury himself under his pillows. Being sick sucked big time.

He slept, or at the very least dosed, because he was jerked awake by a loud bang outside. He reacted instinctively, one hand flying under the pillow as he tensed and his eyes shot open, a shout escaping as his uncoordinated appendage moved to far and caught the blade instead of the handle.

He drew his hand back out from under the pillow, cursing and sucking at his two sliced fingers, cursing more when he realised that what he thought had been a gunshot in his sleep and cold-befuddled mind was little more than a backfiring truck, and still cussing up a blue streak he tumbled out of bed. Literally. His feet were tangled in the sheets and he was paying more attention to his hand and his bladder to notice that until it was too late, his curses turned into swears when he shoulder struck the side table, and for a minute he sat there, nursing his shoulder and his fingers before he remembered his bladder and got to his feet, managing to make it to the bathroom without further incident.

He retreated from the bathroom five minutes later, still nursing his fingers and now cursing an elusive first aid kit he knew had been on the cistern the night before, when he froze just in the door jamb, blinking at Sam. Stood in the kitchenette, humming to himself, and sorting through the missing kit. Of course.

His brother noticed him dumbstruck in the door, and moved over, taking his shoulder and leading him into the room, admonishing him that standing around in just his boxers would only make him sicker, clucking over his cut fingers and listing the dangers of keeping the blade under his pillow – Dean was sure the list had at the very least tripled since the first time he'd put a blade there at the age of fourteen, despite the fact that he knew Sam kept a loaded pistol under his own – and he allowed himself to be pulled back to his bed, let Sam push him onto it and tug the blanket they usually kept in the car off the tiny dining table and around his shoulders.

"I'm the eldest," he grumbled through a blocked nose, as though he was only just remembering the fact.

"Of course you are," Sam responded, adjusting the blanket slightly and grabbing the first aid kid and a bottle of water; the latter was given to Dean with two Tylenol, and Sam dug through the battered box that held there medical supplies as Dean made the tablets do a disappearing act down his throat.

Sam lectured him further on the dangers of knives as he cleaned and dressed the cut fingers, and Dean sat there and took it all with the expression of a six year old. He sniffed as Sam got up and moved towards the kitchenette, and as he exploded into a sneeze he saw something come sailing through the air at him. His sickness made him slow, and his arm came up too late, the missile bouncing off his head and making him burst into another sneeze.

Sam chuckled and debated the capabilities of Dean's hand-eye coordination. Dean responded with a muttered comment on exactly what Sam could do to himself, and as his brother laughed he grabbed at the missile, clutching it to his chest like some crappy teddy bear as he tore the top from it and dragged out a tissue.

Sam scolded him on his idea of a trash can; namely how he shouldn't be using the bed as one, and Dean just groaned in response, twisting and turning until he was able to push himself under the blankets of the bed and bury down in them, curling up in a ball and then sticking his head up and out, blinking blearily from his cocoon of blankets, he wiggled his nose to prevent a sneeze and coughed sharply instead.

"I brought some popsicles if your throat's bad," Sam offered, and Dean scowled at the dirty coving where ceiling met wall; it was all he could see the way he was settled

"I'm thirty Sam, I'm not three," he said grumpily, one hand sneaking out from under the covers and patting around on the bed, trying to find the box of tissues.

"Fine then," Sam didn't sound put out at all, damn kid sounded like he was enjoying this. Dean was going to beat him when he was feeling well enough, for now he'd settle for finding the damn tissue box.

Sam watched him with amusement for a minute, and then he reached out, grabbing the box that had ended up at the foot of the bed, too far from Dean's questing hand, and plunked it down beside Dean's head. Dean froze, going completely still for a moment, and then his hand retreated back under the covers, his whole body rolled onto its side, and then his hand came up to snag the box lying centimetres from his nose. It wasn't just the triumphant hand that started back under the covers now, Dean's head was retreating as well.

"You don't want this then?" Sam asked, holding something out where the box had been. The retreating lump that was Dean froze for a moment, the covers quivering, and then the elder Winchester's head rose back up, Sam bit his lip to stop from laughing, and Dean eyed the bowl suspiciously.

"'Tis it?" he asked, nose wiggling, Sam moved the bowl just in time, the sneeze that erupted from Dean and jerked his head forwards would have resulted in his brother braining himself on the dish.

"Pie," Sam stated. Dean looked at him for a moment, eyes questioning, and then raised himself up on one arm. Sam moved the bowl forwards again, watching Dean's nose for signs of another impending explosion, and Dean looked into the bowl.

"Damn Sam," he breathed after a moment, eyes widening as he looked into the bowl. To Sam he looked something like a five year old, probably was in a way. He still remembered when he had been sick with chicken pox at that age, and Dean had come home from school, late, ignored his father's shouts and threats of a grounding, had gone into the kitchenette of that motel room, and made us this monstrosity.

"Damn," Dean repeated in awe. His eyes were widening further, taking in with childlike glee the treat. A massive slice of chocolate pie, covered in at the very least two inches of whipped cream, and decorated to the last with M&M's. It was a dessert of champions.

"But you're too old to have it," Sam said teasingly, pulling the bowl away after Dean had got a good eyeful. The reaction was classic, Dean's bottom lip pulled out in a pout, his wide eyes turning mournfully onto Sam as he sniffed.

"You'd do this to your brother?" he questioned dejectedly "When he's got the plague? You'd do this to your ailing sibling?" the lip quivered, and Sam bit harder on his lip, almost drawing blood, his shoulders shaking so much with the effort to keep from laughing that he almost dropped the bowl.

"Here," he said, holding out the bowl again. The 'ailing sibling' lurched up, the pitiful look being replaced with one of the utmost glee, the bowl was snatched from his hands, and Dean disappeared, the sheets building up in a massive lump as he sat beneath them with his prize. The only sounds the clink of the spoon on the bowl, and contented moans of ecstasy.

"And you've not got the plague," Sam said, turning away and heading for his own slice of pie waiting on the dining table "You've got a cold."


End file.
